I Dream of Molly
by TheSapphireSky
Summary: Sherlock puts his foot in it for good this time. An "I Dream of Jeannie" au.


_AN: Because at some point I started writing an I Dream of Jeannie au and felt inspired to finish it. Hope you like it!_

"-meddlesome, magical, illogical genie! For three years she has made caused problem after problem in my life with her blinking ways, contaminating evidence, solving crimes for me, magicking away my cigarettes, and causing me no small measure of public infamy. All because I 'rescued' her from Baskerville. Well, no more! I wouldn't keep her if she were the last genie on Earth!"

In the silence that fell after his tirade spurred by the latest bout of trash journalism, Sherlock realised John was shaking his head and had crossed his arms, looking over Sherlock's shoulder with a sympathetic grimace.

Heart in his throat, Sherlock slowly turned around and immediately wished he could turn back time.

Tears in her big brown eyes, Molly stood in the doorway to the lab, having returned from ancient Pompeii with his samples far earlier than he had calculated. Her petite frame was shaking and he wondered whether she was about to cry or slap him silly.

He had gone too far this time. He dropped the tabloid that had incurred his wrath like it was on fire.

"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes," Molly spat out angrily, her ponytail swaying. "Forever."

"Wait-" Sherlock stumbled forward, panicked.

In a blink, she was gone and his hand grasped the empty air where she had just stood. The samples of dirt and clay fell to the tile floor, spilling out of their bags.

What had he done?

oOo

Sherlock burst into 221 and raced up the stairs, flower petals floating behind him from the enormous bouquet he carried. "Molly? Molly?!"

Behind him, John followed at a slower, but no less panicked, pace. "Molly! He didn't mean it!"

The flat was empty and Sherlock's stomach leapt into his throat. He immediately went to the aged, ornate apothecary bottle on the mantle next to Yorrick, peering inside. "Molly?" Empty.

John cleared the bathroom and lounge as Sherlock ransacked the kitchen, peering like a madman into every nook and cranny. No pot or pan was left unsearched, even the catsup and marmite jars didn't escape his proving eye.

Empty. No genie.

No Molly.

Sherlock dropped into his chair, suddenly feeling as if his whole world had been ripped out from underneath him.

John squeezed his shoulder in sympathy. "Looks like she's really left you this time."

No.

"Yeah," Sherlock forced the word out, pasting on a fake smile. "Yeah! No more meddling genie, with her brown blinking eyes and dimpled smile, solving my cases and causing me no small measure of public infamy."

His smile abruptly dropped.

"Sherlock-" John started sympathetically.

Jumping to his feet, Sherlock strode toward his bedroom, pausing just inside the door to turn back for a moment. "After three years, I've finally pushed her away. And I can't blame her."

He slammed the door shut, leaving John staring at the abandoned flowers and empty bottle.

"No one can," he murmured. "But I know she needs you just as much as you need her."

oOo

"Rise and shine!"

Sherlock rolled over and tugged the covers over his head. But John was an insistent bugger and whipped all the covers off the bed. Sherlock scrambled for his dressing gown, mumbling curses at his best friend all the while.

"It's been a month, mate. And you haven't left this flat."

Pale and ragged, his hair unwashed and a thick beard on his forlorn face, Sherlock glared at John and stomped past him into the kitchen. "Why do you care?"

Whatever John said was lost as Sherlock came to a halt at seeing the occupant of the kitchen.

"Molly," he breathed.

Hands folded and back ram-rod straight, Molly stared back at him. She hadn't changed at all. Her long silky hair was pulled back in a high ponytail and she wore the cherry covered cardigan he favored.

"What-what are you doing here?"

Molly took in his pathetic state and averted her eyes, choosing instead to give John an angry glare as the smirking coward slipped out into the stairwell. "Mycroft got in touch. _How_ I will never know, considering I was in ancient Greece. Said you were deathly ill." She scowled, more at herself for falling for the trap, and wrinkled her nose. "A lie, clearly. I'm sorry to have intruded upon your home."

She crossed her arms, about to disappear from his life once again, and he lunged forward.

"No, wait!"

She froze and eyed him warily. Close enough now, he could make out the flecks of gold along the rims of her brown eyes.

"It's not home anymore." He swallowed thickly. "Not since you left."

Tears filled her eyes and her bottom lip trembled as she slowly lowered her arms. "But you said-"

"I know what I said," he interrupted, not wanting to hear the cruel words he had thrown at her. He had tortured himself remembering them every day for a month. "And I was wrong." Reaching for her hand, he stepped closer until she had to tip her head back to look at him. "Molly Hooper, I love you. Your heart, your smile, your insistence on meddling in my life with your magic. All of it. This isn't home anymore because my home is with you."

She bit her lip, unsure. But he could see the longing in her eyes.

"Please forgive me," he pleaded, holding her hand to his chest and imploring her to believe him. "Stay with me. Build a life here with me…in our home."

Her wide brown eyes glistened with tears. "You love me?"

He smiled softly. "More than a triple murder."

With a joyful shout, she leapt at him, throwing her arms around his neck. He caught his breath at the feeling of her in his arms and buried his smile in her hair.

"I love you, too," she breathed in his ear, not giving him a chance to react before kissing him so deeply, so lovingly, that he forgot his own name.

This…this was home.


End file.
